


Walking Home

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-12 00:33:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7077133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“If I wanted to kiss you, I’d actually do it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walking Home

The days they walk home together are few and far-between, falling in time like thick tar from a thin tube at a low angle. Takao’s considered walking back to Shutoku after dropping off Midorima and the cart to see if Yuuya’s done with practice (more times than he’d admit), but those considerations fade after he’s pedaled the cart all the way across town and there’s only a few blocks more to walk to his open door and his family and a warm dinner (and Yuuya would probably yell at him if he came back, but that’s never stopped Takao from doing anything before).

But the days when Midorima’s sick or off doing some sort of activity alone and Takao doesn’t have to pedal the rickshaw, or when it’s raining too hard and Midorima beats around the bush without saying that using a rickshaw in the rain is dangerous (even though he’s gotten better about admitting he cares, he’s still Midorima) then Takao is free, and there’s no one he’d rather spend time with than Yuuya. That’s what he says every time, when he’s waiting outside the locker room doing homework or playing games on his phone, when Yuuya comes out and scowls and asks him why the hell he’s still here. And it’s true, and the blush that spreads across Yuuya’s face like spilled crimson paint coupled with the sounds from the back of his throat and the crack in his voice when he half-yells some sort of nonsensical threat is totally worth it.

Besides, it doesn’t stop him from taking Takao’s hand if it’s dark out, pressing every callus on his palm to Takao’s fingers (and Takao forgets about the difference in the sizes of their hands until they do this, until Yuuya makes it clear). His face is still red when they cross paths with a streetlight, but he smiles anyway.

“How are we doing?”

“Good, I think,” says Takao, fighting off the instinct that the “we” refers to them as a couple and not the Shutoku basketball team. “Your leg is dropping on your jump shot.”

Yuuya grimaces, running his free hand through his hair. “I knew something was off.”

“It’s not a big deal; it’s not even on every shot,” says Takao. “If it was, I would have told you during practice.”

“Yeah, and I would have spent the rest of it trying to correct that when I really needed to do passing drills.”

Takao shrugs. “The passing looks good.”

“Well, it has to stay that way,” says Yuuya.

Takao squeezes his hand. “You want to stop and get snacks?”

“It’ll spoil your dinner,” says Yuuya.

They stop at the convenience store anyway, buying a can of soda for Takao and a bag of shrimp chips for Yuuya. The first time they’d walked home together, when Takao had stayed extra-late after practice just to see if he could keep up, weeks before they’d started going out and before Takao had any idea if Yuuya liked him back or not, Yuuya had bought a bag of shrimp chips and basically inhaled them, only offering to share the crumbs with Takao. Takao had been surprised, because it hadn’t really fit in with his perception of Yuuya at all—at least until he’d figured out how nervous Yuuya had been (which Yuuya denies, but in hindsight it’s obvious).

“What are you smirking about?” says Yuuya.

He holds out the bag, and Takao takes a chip. “Nothing.”

Yuuya looks at him and then shrugs. “I probably don’t want to know.”

“You’re cute,” says Takao, and Yuuya nearly drops the bag.

“Excuse me?”

Takao opens his soda and takes a sip.

“Hey,” says Yuuya, grabbing the can and taking a gulp for himself.

“That’s an indirect kiss, Yuu-chan.”

“If I wanted to kiss you, I’d actually do it,” says Yuuya.

“Oh?”

Yuuya’s lips are soft and puckered with salt, tasting mostly of the soda. His tongue traces along Takao’s bottom teeth and Takao shivers, reaching a hand up to cup Yuuya’s cheek and lace his fingers through Yuuya’s hair.

“You tricked me,” says Yuuya when they break, short of breath.

“You wanted it,” says Takao.

He steals back the can of soda for himself. It’s cold, and perhaps he should have opted for a hot beverage instead, considering the weather. It’s cool for early autumn, as if the season is peering at them from a back alley, moving closer when he turns his back, like a kid in a game of red light green light. It’s another reminder that the winter cup isn’t far away, that they only have so much time to hone and perfect everything until they have to hit the ground running and only accelerate from there. It’s not impossible, at least not from this distance—but Takao wonders if they’ll be ready all the same.

“You okay?” says Yuuya. “Want another chip?”

“I’m good,” says Takao.

He crumples the soda can and shoots it crisply into the garbage can on the corner. It’s no use speculating; they’ll prepare and then, as Midorima likes to say, God will dispose.

“You’ll do fine,” says Yuuya, and for all his point-missing and lack of subtlety how does he know the right thing to say at a time like this?

He shifts his arm around Takao’s shoulders and doesn’t say anything else. But there’s not much more to say, not much more than what gets through from the gesture.

His house is too close to the school; it had been one of the reasons he’d chosen Shutoku (okay, the real reasons had been basketball and academics, but it’s not like this hadn’t been an additional perk) as it would give him less time walking and more time sleeping both ways. Of course, it hadn’t quite worked out that way (but these things rarely do) and especially now, when he and Yuuya have extra practice and homework and Yuuya’s university exams coming between them like the heaviest kind of third wheel, it would be nice to get a little more time, a few more blocks, where they can just walk together.

“Get some sleep,” says Yuuya, tweaking him on the nose before giving him a quick kiss. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“You can stay for dinner,” says Takao.

(He does sometimes; Takao asks him every time.)

“Nah,” says Yuuya. “Thanks for the offer, but I do have to get home.”

His fingers are locked in Takao’s; for a brief moment Takao considers not letting go. But they’ll see each other tomorrow; he can be sappy and lovesick by himself if he needs to (and they can always text).

“Have a safe trip,” says Takao.

“As if I’d let anything happen,” says Yuuya.

He smiles, rare and real and beautiful (and despite what Midorima says, Yuuya very much has the capacity to smile—his brother is a different story, but that’s irrelevant). Takao watches him leave, hands in his pockets, and the wind carries his off-key whistling back to the doorstep.


End file.
